Esto no es un título

Waking up one day with the feeling of not seeing clearly, not appreciating defined forms, wondering what that blur is that presents itself as an indeterminate body. Moving in the darkness while all the shadows emerge unbalanced, crying inwardly while pedaling a bike under a salty rain. Looking back with the clock hands making a final sprint. Getting lost in the fragmented. Swallowing the scream. Submitting to the intrigue of the unnamed. This is not a nightmare. This is not a 'fictionalized' reality. We don't know what this is, and this has no title.